When
· Naughties
· · 2007
· · · July
· · · · 26 (3 entries)

July Flowers · They’re ev­ery­where. This one is or­ange (a nas­tur­tium) ...
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See, It’s Addictive · Blog­ging, I mean. Up till now, I had known ex­act­ly one in­stance of a suc­cess­ful high-volume blog­ger who just walked away from it: Rus­sell Beat­tie, who closed up shop in April 2006. Wel­l, he’s back. Two things you need to know about him: he is ex­treme­ly ex­pert on the mo­bile tech­nol­o­gy busi­ness, and his sur­name rhymes with “she catty” or “he ratty” or “me fatty”. I’ve sub­scribed.
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Il faut arrêter le Tour · I’m quot­ing Re­naud Dély and I don’t know who he is, but (if you have some French) check out A l’agonie. Road cy­cling, at one lev­el it’s among the purest sport­s, or should be any­how: one hu­man against moun­tains and clocks and oth­er hu­mans and his or her own oxy­gen metabolis­m; strength and courage writ large. Post-Landis, I’d re­solved not to care any more, but I woke up ear­ly one morn­ing and ac­ci­den­tal­ly caught a stage while look­ing for some­thing else, and start­ed to care about Vi­nokurov and Ras­mussen and Con­ta­dor and so on. Like Re­naud said, shut it down now; ei­ther they turn it off or they’ve proved they just don’t care. Yes, Con­ta­dor too; as of to­day, ev­ery pro­fes­sion­al cy­clist is guilty un­til proved in­no­cen­t. In case you hadn’t no­ticed, the teams had to be car­ry­ing the trans­fu­sion and steroid-augmentation equip­ment along with ’em; you can’t just drop by a vil­lage on the Franco-Spanish bor­der and pick up your next day’s red cell­s. They’ve be­trayed mil­lion­s; to hell with ’em.
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